


cut to the feeling

by talionprinciple (Triskai)



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gore, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, disembowelment for fun and profit, seriously gore, the hunter has some fun with immortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 10:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14353956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triskai/pseuds/talionprinciple
Summary: Alfred and the hunter have an arrangement.





	cut to the feeling

Alfred and the hunter have an arrangement. It goes like this.

The moon is full, bright, and merciless. It has always been full; perhaps it will always be. The beasts are thick in the streets. Alfred has cut a space for himself out of blood and matted fur and splintered bone, a little circle around the foot of a statue, a corridor where the wind whistles through. His kirkhammer keeps his hands busy when his mind wanders dark paths. And when that is not enough, a sweet scent comes to him, the smell of the moon.

The hunter always appears suddenly, but that delicate scent precedes him by minutes.

It started when the hunter rang a bell and Alfred answered. After taking down that wretched flayed beast the hunter had pushed him up against a pillar, the both of them gasping and giddy with adrenaline, and slotted their mouths together – artlessly, roughly, and Alfred had responded in kind, pressing into the warmth of his body, wanting more, _more._ But the resonance of the bell faded quickly, and in moments Alfred was gone.

Fortunately, it hadn’t taken long for the hunter to find him.

Now, when the shadows in Alfred’s mind grow teeth, or the torrent of beasts crushes the hunter’s spirit, the hunter comes to Alfred’s little plaza and they find what solace they can.

This goes on for a while (who knows how long, in this unending night?) before the hunter pauses in the middle of one of their trysts, panting hard, looks into Alfred’s eyes with blown pupils and says, “I want you to take me apart.”

God, he wants to.

The hunter takes Alfred’s hands, presses them against his bare stomach. His eyes are bright. They’re still joined, the hunter hard inside him, and Alfred doesn’t know if he wants the hunter to just fucking move again or to see where this is going.

“You could cut—right here,” the hunter drags Alfred’s fingers along soft skin, “I would die slow, I could keep fucking you the whole time.”

The hunter thrusts once, sharply, as if to accentuate his point. Alfred gasps, digs his fingers into the hunter’s abdomen, thinks about what it would be like to cut it open and grasp the insides. Slick and soft and hot. The tantalizing scent of blood and meat as the hunter spills out on top of him. Alfred thinks, _This is mad._ He thinks, _I’m sick._ But that bright-eyed hunter, moon-scented, immortal, looks at him and looks at him and Alfred wants it so badly that it hurts. He knows the hunter won’t die. The dream keeps him here; he is as fixed and unchanging as the moon in the sky.

Humans shouldn’t want such terrible things. But, after all… Yharnam is a city of beasts now. Who is left to care?

Alfred says, “Do you have a knife?”

(Of course he does.)

The first cut feels like taking the sacrament. The hunter sighs and leans into it, and Alfred is transfixed by the sight of pale skin splitting around steel, the shock of red, red blood – and the smell, oh, the smell of the blood is like the moon and the beasts and the night. The hunter looms over him, blots out the sky. The hunter is inside him, moving languidly, sending waves of pleasure lapping up his spine. The hunter is dripping down the knife and onto his fingers. Alfred puts one hand to his face for a taste. The hunter’s blood is like nothing he’s ever tasted before, and as it runs through his fingers and turns his hands sticky Alfred thinks that this is something truly divine, like receiving manna from the sky. 

“Alfred,” the hunter says softly. Alfred looks up and the hunter captures his mouth in a lingering kiss, running his tongue over Alfred’s lips, tasting his own blood on the Executioner’s skin. From that first incision, time seems to have turned syrupy and thick. The hunter is rolling his hips unhurriedly, cradling Alfred’s head with gentle hands even as his blood runs down his abdomen. With the hunter all around him Alfred imagines he is afloat in a vast warm moon-scented sea, allowing himself to be jostled any which way by the waves.

But he wants more.

He slants the knife and pushes up savagely, feeling the skin give and a new torrent of hot blood wash over his hands. The hunter gasps, makes a choked-off little sound. Something awakens inside Alfred and he suddenly wants, needs, to wring that noise out of the hunter again, to take him by the neck and shake him until something snaps. Alfred throws the knife aside and reaches into the gash he’d left. The hunter’s thrusts go erratic, and he buries his face in the crook of Alfred’s neck, pressing a sloppy kiss there, then a bite. (He doesn’t break skin; that contrasted with Alfred’s own violence makes something twist in his chest.) It’s terribly warm inside. Long lengths of intestine, coiled tight within the hunter, unravel between in Alfred’s fingers. He grips a piece tightly. He can feel the hunter’s heartbeat in the palm of his hand, fluttering like the wings of a bird.

Alfred _tugs._

The hunter cries out, a noise somewhere between a sob and a moan, and Alfred doesn’t stop, keeps pulling the substance out of his bright-eyed, moon-scented hunter. The front of his once-grey robes is almost entirely red now, viscera strewn all over it in an obscene display. All of it is his hunter, pieces of his hunter usually kept tucked away but now sliding and squishing in his hands.

“Alfred,” the hunter says again, only there’s an edge to his voice now, just a hint of desperation. “Gods, Alfred. This feels…”

The hunter doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t have to; Alfred feels it too, a heat coiling in his belly as the hunter thrusts again and again, harder now. Blood mixes with oil and precum as it slides down the hunter’s belly and between his thighs. It is disgusting; it is divine. The hunter leans over to kiss Alfred again, but this time it’s rough with desire, teeth nipping at Alfred’s lips. He responds in kind, biting until he tastes blood. That’s what sends the hunter over the edge – he breaks away from the kiss to let out a strangled cry, pushing as deep in Alfred as he can go. The warmth of the hunter’s seed inside him, and the weight of the entrails on his chest, and the blood on his lips – it’s too much, and Alfred seizes up, come splattering onto his belly to mix with the blood and viscera.

The hunter pulls out, panting, and rolls off Alfred, flinging an arm over him in a weak embrace. Alfred is too exhausted to do anything but lie there, licking his lips absently to clean them of blood.

“That was fun,” the hunter says weakly. “We should do this again sometime.”

Alfred just turns his head and presses a soft kiss to the hunter’s forehead. It won’t be long before the gut wound gets the best of him and he returns to the dream. But for now they can rest and enjoy this peace, and this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to carly rae jepsen


End file.
